


Conflict management

by Hypatia_66



Series: Early days [15]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Childhood, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Training, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 11:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16638923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: A follow-up to Early Days 14.His new Russian partner having been beaten up again by fellow UNCLE agents, Napoleon wants to teach the culprits a lesson – it’s not what they expect.





	Conflict management

All the junior agents from Sections Two and Three had come to the Training Suite for a special training session. They had arrived in small groups and sat waiting. Kuryakin was as ever seated alone and largely ignored by his fellow agents. By all but one, at least, who sat down beside him and said, “Any idea what this is about, Kuryakin?”

“No,” he replied.

“Gonna show off your KGB training, are you?”

“No.”

The agent moved away again and everyone stood up as the Head of Personnel, Mr Henrickson, entered with Napoleon Solo, a young man predicted by many to be in line to take over from the Head of Section Two in due course.

“Relax, men, sit down,” the senior man said. “You all know Mr Solo, I think. He will be taking this session – I am merely here to watch. All right, Mr Solo, carry on.”

Napoleon smiled round at the agents and gestured to them to sit down.

“Today’s session, gentlemen, is about how our prejudices affect our judgment in conflict situations,” he said to a general rolling of eyes among the would-be alpha males.

“You mean we should try not to prejudge someone when they point a gun at us? Argue our way out of it?”

“If that seems appropriate, why not? It’s worked for me often enough,” he replied. “But I’m talking about more problematic situations where it really matters how we decide who is the enemy.”

Illya looked alarmed for a moment then stony-faced as all the eyes rolled in his direction.

“Let’s say we decide that anyone who chooses to wear a blue tie is clearly not fit to be one of us. Anyone here wearing a blue tie?” He had spotted several – and he’d checked that Illya’s wasn’t. “What do you usually do to outcasts? Challenge them? Tell them to leave? Beat them up? What?”

“Any of those,” someone volunteered as others looked at each other and winked.

“How about asking them why they happen to be wearing a blue tie?” Napoleon suggested.

“If it’s not in our dress code, why would we?”

“Why wouldn’t you? The blue tie might be all he had after a disaster.”

“What disaster?”

Napoleon almost rolled his own eyes, but instead said, “The nature of the disaster isn’t the question, Brett, so let me offer a different scenario. What if the code said only people with blue eyes could belong to the group?”

“No-one can choose what they’re born with – it’s not like a tie,” said one brown-eyed individual, who happened to be Jewish. “It doesn’t affect their ability.”

“Anyone else want to say something before we check who doesn’t have blue eyes?” said Napoleon. “No? Okay, let’s separate the sheep from the goats.”

It was noticeable that everyone looked at Illya first and turned away. Illya himself took no part and sat with his arms folded ignoring everyone.

There were several disputes. “Your eyes are grey…” “They’re blue!” “Mr Solo, I’m colour-blind, I don’t know the difference between blue-grey and green.” “Does very light green count as blue or green?”

“Mr Solo, _you_ don’t have blue eyes,” said one of the group.

Napoleon was prepared for that and smiled genially. “I’m the teacher, here. It doesn’t count.”

At last, the definitely brown- or hazel-eyed, who included a young man with dark skin as well as the Jewish agent, were sent to stand apart from the rest. The more-or-less blue-eyed were asked to sit round a table to discuss what to do with the pariahs. Some of them, however, clearly felt that there were individuals who had slipped through the net and edged away from them; it took them closer to Illya with his unquestionably blue eyes, who was far from comfortable about it.

The outcasts shifted even more uncomfortably in their isolation from the family group, who now appeared to discuss their fate rather too cold-heartedly for their peace of mind.

“So, what are we going to do with them?”

“What do you want to do?” said Napoleon.

“We could beat them up,” said a cheerfully blue-eyed member of the group.

“We could lock ‘em up,” said another. Other more imaginative solutions followed – semi-drowning in the showers, using them as punchbags, offering them up as bait for Thrush, and the like, which produced more winking.

“We could just kill them,” said one, emboldened by the general atmosphere of intolerance. Illya swallowed and kept silent.

Napoleon accepted all suggestions and wrote them on the board. Then he turned and said, “Thank you gentlemen. Now we’ll amend the code and accept anyone _but_ people with blue eyes. So, if you’d like to change places…”

Illya lifted wounded blue eyes to his partner. This wouldn’t go well. As the men exchanged places and jeers, he stood quietly apart, his back to the wall. The same questions elicited even more bloodthirsty retribution until Napoleon called a halt. Mr Henrickson looked relieved; he was impressed by Napoleon’s magnetic personality and his hold over these men of violence because there was certainly a dangerous air of antagonism in the room. He would make a good head of section when the time came.

Napoleon said, “The code was just an invention, of course. All provisions are now annulled. I’m sure you find it as interesting as I do, that your reactions to people outside your own group are so primitive.”

They glared resentfully at him, muttering among themselves and angrily aware that he had brought out the worst in them. They also glared at Illya who had _not_ been betrayed into revealing himself.

Napoleon stared each of them down and, as the muttering ceased, he said, “So, that was a demonstration of the dangerous effects of prejudice. We’ll now allow those effects to dissipate, gentlemen, by listening to some stories about why you joined UNCLE. Anyone care to start?”

There was some hesitation but the less furious among them began to speak up.

“I wanted to do good in the world,” said one. “My folks are just ordinary but my dad joined up to fight in Germany against fascism. He didn’t have to go – he was over-age but he thought it was his duty. And that’s how he raised me.”

This seemed to be a common theme, and was repeated. Others had seen injustice in their communities, such as police beating and even killing peaceful demonstrators. This was particularly the experience of the brown-skinned agent, though others admitted they were aware that the police were unreliable agents of law enforcement, let alone justice, and wanted to be better than that.

In the end, everyone had something to say, however brief, except Illya who remained silent.

Henrickson observing his reticence, spoke up. “Mr … Kuryakin, is it? I’d be interested to hear your story.”

The room went quiet and they all turned to look at the Russian agent. “I think you know why I joined UNCLE, sir,” he said evenly.

“I know Mr Waverly specifically asked for you, but tell us – if you will – something about yourself.”

“My details are on file.”

Henrickson nodded. “I’ve read it, of course,” he said. “How did you meet Mr Waverly?”

“Harry Beldon introduced us when he came to Berlin,” said Illya stiffly.

“You then went to London?”

“Yes.”

“And you are fluent in several languages having studied in French and English universities.”

“Yes.”

“And then you came here at Mr Waverly’s behest. I’m told you particularly impressed him. Do you know in what way?”

“No.”

The other agents looked bored. Henrickson was nevertheless tenacious in the face of taciturnity and now stepped onto dangerous ground. “I think I’m right in saying you were born and raised in Kiev during the war. That must have been a difficult time.”

Illya nodded, avoiding all eyes.

“For example, I read that, at an early age, you were forced to watch a massacre carried out by the invading fascist army.”

Illya looked up, taking a sudden breath, but didn’t speak. The blue eyes were the only colour in his face. The other men watched, now intrigued despite themselves.

“But you survived. How was that?” Henrickson persisted. He knew the answer; just wanted to hear it spoken. Napoleon watched his partner in concern, not daring to say anything.

“Because I was a child who had blond hair. And blue eyes,” said Illya at last. “One of _them,_ they said _._ ” He almost spat the words.

There was a slight movement among the other agents.

“And everyone else died?”

“Not everyone, but most.” Illya’s voice was muted; head bent, his eyes were no longer visible.

“What happened to you afterwards?”

Henrickson waited. The room was silent.

“I ran away.” Illya stopped and said nothing more.

“Alone at eight years old, I believe. Ran away and … the word ‘survived’ would be quite an understatement, Mr Kuryakin.”

Illya shrugged.

“And continue to survive despite all the odds.” Henrickson glanced round the room.

“I was one of the lucky ones,” said Illya.

Henrickson released him but further embarrassed him by saying, “You’re a brave man, Mr Kuryakin, and clearly resourceful. UNCLE is glad to have you in its ranks.”

Illya opened his mouth, a little surprised, and looked at Napoleon, then at Henrickson. “I hope I continue to justify your opinion, sir.”

Eyes flicked towards him and away. There was some whispered conversation until Napoleon addressed them. “To be chosen by UNCLE means a lot to me. And I, too, hope to continue to be worthy of this organisation. I’m sure everyone here feels the same.” He paused. There was some clearing of throats and nodding. “Does anyone want to say anything? No? OK. Thank you, gentlemen.”

<><><> 

“And you seriously think that little game will exorcise the prejudices of our colleagues?” said Illya, as the door to Napoleon’s office closed.

“If it made them think – yeah. And Henrickson’s intervention was masterly, I thought.”

“Masterly? It was outrageous.”

“Not if it made you a bit more human in their eyes, Illya. You might not approve of the way Americans like to open their soul to all and sundry, but that could be all it takes to be accepted.”

Illya was disgusted. “My soul is …”

“Your own, private. I get that. But what you went through is pretty significant. Makes it easier to see why you’re the way you are – not a bolshie communist infiltrator, not a strange foreign enemy … just my partner and friend, Illya, who had a childhood none of them could have imagined and most couldn’t have survived.”

“And a training most of them couldn’t have survived.”

“If you say so. But you don’t know _them_ any more than they know you. Don’t judge them like they’ve judged you. They’re pretty tough, too.”

“Napoleon…”

“Come on, Little Red Menace. We’ll go down to the gym and show them. They’re bound to be there.”

Illya smiled reluctantly. “Are you sure you want me to show you up?” he said.

Napoleon looked up and saw the blue eyes dancing. He sniffed. “You and whose army?” he said with dignity.

<><><><> 

**Author's Note:**

> Readers may recognise in elements of this story, Jane Elliott’s 1968 racism experiment with the children in her class in Riceville, Iowa, after the assassination of Martin Luther King.


End file.
